flirty with fate

I’m splashing my face with water prying mascara goo outta my eyeballs when I start to have this conversation in my head. I’ve got this reverse crazy thing. I don’t have The Voices in my head talking to me; I’m the one who’s talking to The Voices.
(I’m on the Edge flinging words hoping to hear an echo.)

This time I know who I’m talking to. This one’s got a name and I call it Higher Power. I used to call it God. Now I speak to it in hushed tones. I think of our backs turned to the corner while I speak. I’m not sure that he hears me cos I’m not sure he’s there. I could peak around the corner. But I don’t. That’s not how we communicate, not now.

So, I’ve splashed the water in my face and now I’m combing my hair back with my fingers and it’s that moment where you look in the mirror. You’re face to face with yourself. And it’s like you see yourself.
(In rush color bleed like a long commute back home.)
What’s the next step?
No, that wasn’t directed at Higher Power… that was directed at… at… (Name it!) The Abyss. What’s the next step?

Fuck, I don’t know.

It’s been almost a year. In April I decided that I was going to take this whole writing deal seriously. In this epiphaninic moment, I decided, hey! let’s do this! let’s get out of here! I should move back home! live with mimi! save money! be a writer! focus on shit! apply for an school! get into a writing program! woo hoo!
(woooo! wooooo!!…….chugga chugga chugga……..wooooo! wooooo!!)
Okay, so… I’ve done some of that.
But now what?
I don’t want to go to school anymore. Fuck it. Take the road less traveled. I think that all I really want right now is a place of my own. I want to move to a new city, a one-bedroom, see new things, new sights, new people, new material. Take Flora with me and adopt a rescue dog. Find a steady job. (service industry? or something else? something bigger and adultish??) And write. just fucking write. and like do it for real.

Am I making excuses to say that I don’t have time for serious writing right now? There are only 24 hours in a day, only 7 days in a week. I am only one person.
(workworkworkworkwork domedada drrrdrrrrdrrrdrrrdrrrr)
Make money, write papers. Ha. I need to stop writing now.
Like, literally now. I need sleep.
Tomorrow I’m going to church and I got flirty with God and sent, “Hey there” like a text message to an ex boyfriend.
Give me a sign, baby.

Be present, I remind myself as I drive into my driveway. I sit and listen to Just Off The Radar and smoke a hole into the back of my throat. Be here.

Savannah, GA, I don’t know what exactly the hell I’m going to do but I’m going to fuck ya for all you’re worth until I leave like a scummy sleaze ball you met at a bar.

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